Baumgartner Generations: Henry, page 2
part #5 of The Baumgartners Series
“Right.” He nodded. “That’s what I meant.”
Of course, now he was thinking things he shouldn’t and silently cursing the guy who got to hit that for the first time, if he was being totally honest. Which he wasn’t about to be, at least out loud, with the girl standing next to him.
“Have you ever read the Kama Sutra?” She leaned in close, as if there was someone else who could hear her, leafing through the book she’d picked up on their way into the elevator.
He eyed her, surprised, brain devoid of any snappy comeback. “No.”
“Look at that.” She paused at one of the pages. The book didn’t just have drawings of people, no—it was fully, pictorially illustrated. Christ. Henry swallowed, studying what was essentially porn open in the girl’s hands.”Do you think that’s even possible?”
“Ouch,” he agreed, noting the position, the guy standing, the woman’s legs bent at an awkward angle. How was he even holding her up?
“Oh, but this one’s nice,” she said, stopping on another page. The couple was kind of spooning.
“Nuh-nice.” Henry stammered.
“Sure you didn’t want to check this book out?” She winked and he noticed that even her eyelashes were red. A natural redhead. That meant that wherever else she had hair on her body, it was most likely red, too. She interrupted his straying thoughts. “No law saying you can’t. Thank god.”
“Yeah, censorship sucks,” he agreed, boldly reaching over and flipping a page. Then another. He could smell her, a light, clean scent, soap or shampoo maybe.
She stopped him, a small noise escaping her throat. “That one.”
The guy’s face was buried between the woman’s thighs, her legs up over his shoulders. You couldn’t really see anything, but you knew just what was going on.
“One of my all-time favorites.” Henry’s arm brushed hers as he reached out to turn the page again.
“Mine, too,” she breathed, making another noise at the position on the next page. “That’s a fun one. Ride ’em, cowgirl.”
“Is it just me or is it hot in here?” He shifted from foot to foot, peeking at the lights on the elevator. They were passing the ground floor now. Checkout was on the second floor.
“Got kind of intimate all of a sudden, didn’t it?” She was so close he could count her freckles. “Elevators do that to me anyway.” Her voice was low and sexy. The tone made his mouth water. He saw a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Closed spaces.”
“You’re obviously not claustrophobic.”
First floor. Almost there.
She laughed as the elevator doors opened, stepping out and walking toward the checkout. Henry followed, giving up his student ID, which doubled as his library card, watching her as she typed and swiped and did whatever she needed to do.
There was another woman watching them—probably the real librarian, a pudgy woman with short black hair and thickly painted on red lipstick that was bleeding into the faint outline of her mustache. She was a far cry from his wet dream archetypal image of a librarian, but her demeanor was similar, the serious frown, the watchful eyes. She looked like she was about to say, “Shhh!” at any moment.
The flirty, suggestive girl from the elevator had disappeared—the redhead turned into all-business when the librarian was around.
“Okay, I think I did this right.” She handed back his card. “You’ll get an email with a link. Just click it and download the ebook file. It will expire in two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” Henry gulped. How in the hell was he going to learn to read in two weeks?
“You can check it out again, as long as it hasn’t been requested by someone else,” she explained. There was a line behind him now, and the red-lipstick librarian was watching them with raised eyebrows.
“Okay you’re all set…Henry,” the redhead said loudly, squinting at his card as she handed it back to him.
“Thanks.” He leaned forward onto the counter, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You know, they say you never forget your first.”
She smiled. “But you don’t even know my name.”
“I’m such a dog.” He pulled out his wallet so he could put his card back—just an excuse to talk to her longer. “With a long string of ebook checkout firsts all through the state…”
“Olivia.” She leaned forward to tell him, so close he felt her breath on his cheek. “Libby.”
He heard the girl behind him grumble loudly as he slipped his ID into his wallet.
“Maybe I’ll see you around, Libby.” Henry put his wallet into his back pocket, stepping away from the counter.
Libby winked. “I’ll be here.”
* * * *
The dragon-lady, a name passed on year after year to incoming freshman by her former students, was a formidable figure in front of the classroom. She towered over them, her heels clicking up and down the aisles, hips swaying. She reminded Henry of both a dragon and a cat at times. It was the way she moved, the way her eyes narrowed, and if she had a tail, it would swish constantly.
She was also drop-dead gorgeous. It wasn’t just her curves—and the woman had those in spades, and in all the right places—she had a kind of cool beauty that made your breath catch in her presence. Unlike most women her age, she hadn’t followed the trend and cut her hair short. Instead it hung long and free, so black it was almost blue under the fluorescents. She wore it up on occasion, or braided into a long, thick plait down her back, but mostly she didn’t and it was a terrible distraction.
It was her eyes, though, that mostly got to Henry. They were dark eyes, framed by thick lashes, and they watched him. It seemed as if she watched him constantly. Whenever he looked up, her gaze was on him, as if she knew him, or knew something about him. It was unnerving. But it also intrigued him.
“Mr. Baumgartner.” Professor Franklin sighed loudly as he fumbled with his microcassette recorder. He never took notes. Instead, he’d used his recorder all through high school and it was proving to be invaluable in college as well.
“Uh…yeah?” Henry glanced up, turning the cassette over and pushing the red button. Not that he wanted to record this exchange for posterity. For some reason, she liked to focus on him, single him out.
“Must you do that?” She had her paperback version of The Great Gatsby open, had been in the middle of reading them a passage, when his tape had run out.
“Do what?”
She pointed. “Use that…thing?”
“It’s…” Necessary was the word that came to mind. Instead he said, “Easier.”
“Easier than what? Taking notes?” She waved her hand around the room. Everyone else had a notebook open.
“Yeah, for me.” He sounded more defensive than he wanted to. “It is.”
“Easy isn’t always best.” She considered his recorder, the tape turning again. “Can I go on now?”
He felt his face burning. “Sure.”
She began to read again from the book, “He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize just how extraordinary a ‘nice’ girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt married to her, that was all.”
She stopped, inspecting around the room. “Why do you think he felt that way?”
Henry blurted out, “She was his soul mate.”
“That’s very romantic, Henry.” It was the closest he’d ever seen her to smiling.
He shrugged. “Isn’t it a romance?”
“Gatsby?” She blinked at him. “Austen, maybe…that’s romance. Pride and Prejudice. Sense and Sensibility. Matches and marriages are made. Happy endings are implied. But Gatsby? Have you read to the end of the book?”
“Yeah.” Well, that was partially true. Thanks to audio books and his iPod, he’d managed.
She raised her eyebrows. “Then you know how it all ends?”
“Just because people die, doesn’t mean it’s not a romance,” Henry said, defending his position. “I mean, they love each other, right? Just because Romeo and Juliet end up dead doesn’t mean they didn’t love each other.”
Professor Franklin folded the book in front of her, keeping her place with her finger. “But Romeo and Juliet was a tragedy.”
“Not in the beginning,” Henry countered. “I mean, sometimes it works out, and sometimes it doesn’t. But love is love. Isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s true.” She gave him a nod of acknowledgment, turning back to the book. Then she paused, focusing once again on him. “Henry, will you keep reading for me, please?”
It was the first time she’d called him by his first name. It was the first time he’d heard her call any student by their first name. But he couldn’t read out loud. It was hard enough slogging through it by himself. One page could take him an hour.
Henry considered his predicament, trying to find a way out of it. “I’ve got a cold. My throat kind of hurts.”
She didn’t drop her gaze. “Just the next paragraph.”
“Just one paragraph?” He picked up his book, glancing at the clock. It was almost time to go. Maybe he could stall… “What page are we on again?”
“Two-nineteen.”
He started flipping through the pages, feeling his face begin to burn. This always happened, every time he got put on the spot. And if he had trouble with words to begin with, it was even worse under pressure. It became impossible to think, let alone read.
Henry found the page, glancing back up at her. “Two-nineteen?”
“Fourth paragraph,” she indicated. “Go ahead.”
He used his finger to count down the indents. One, two, three, four…
One word at a time, he told himself. But it was a futile reassurance. He was about to humiliate himself in front of the entire class.
“Wh—” Henry stopped. The words were literally swimming in front of his eyes. “What…”
“When,” Professor Franklin prodded, her voice gentle. “The paragraph starts with when. Go on.”
“When…they meet…”
“Met,” she corrected. He felt her moving toward him, but didn’t look up from page. He also felt thirty eyes turned in his direction.
“When they met…across…”
“Again.” He glanced up at her this time, confused. She was standing right next to his desk.
“The word is again, not across.”
He cleared his throat. “When they met again, two days after…”
“Later,” she corrected. “Two days later.”
“Hey, you know what, I have to…” Henry closed the book, starting to stand. “Go.” He observed the time. Thank god. Saved by the bell. “I have hockey practice.”
Professor Franklin glanced behind her at the clock. The class was already gathering books, packing backpacks, putting on jackets. “Don’t forget to read through the end of the book by next week!” she called over the rustling noise and conversation. “I’m afraid it doesn’t end all happily ever after.”
Henry clicked stop on the tape recorder and shoved it into the front of his backpack, along with his paperback. He was getting up before he realized Professor Franklin was still standing next to his desk, watching him.
“Henry, may I speak to you, please?”
Henry again. Twice in the same day. Why had she singled him out? He followed her silently to her desk and stood there, waiting, as she began to pack her things as well. The class had dispersed by the time she pulled a blue essay book out of her bag. The sight of it made his stomach drop to his knees.
“You recognize this?” she inquired, putting it down on the desk.
He just nodded. She had given them a “pop quiz” last week, just a short essay about the symbolism in Gatsby. Freshmen professors had to send out five-week progress reports. It was a new thing this year, she’d explained, so she wanted something to base a grade on. He hadn’t expected it and hadn’t prepared for it.
“It’s insightful.” She tapped her long, red fingernail on the essay’s front page. Then she opened it up and Henry saw the “F” circled in red marker inside the cover. He felt like throwing up. “But it’s nearly impossible to read. Your spelling is atrocious. It’s almost as if…”
“Spell check is my best friend.” He gave her a sheepish smile, shrugging helplessly.
“No one should rely on spell check for the basics.” She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I couldn’t pass you based on this. I’m sorry.”
“Can I...would you let me take it and re-do it?” This was something he’d gotten away with before. Maybe…
“I’m afraid not.” She handed the paper across the desk to him. “Henry, I also wanted you to know…I had to send your progress report for this term to your coach.”
He swallowed. “My coach?”
“You have a hockey scholarship, right?”
He nodded. Not hockey. Anything else, but he couldn’t lose that.
“It’s part of the new freshmen requirements.” She sounded apologetic.
Henry steeled himself against her words. There was no way they’d bench him. He was leading the league in points. And even if his coach brought it up, he’d find a way to talk his way out of it. He always did. “Listen, I’m actually gonna be late for practice if I don’t go…”
“I just wanted you to know, before you saw your coach.”
Henry turned and headed toward the door, escaping as quickly as he could.
* * * *
He couldn’t stop thinking about the redhead.
He’d intended to brave the library again just to tell Libby that she’d done everything perfectly. The download worked and the ebook was readable right there on his laptop.
The only problem was the original print version of the book came with a CD that said all the phonics sounds for you, while the digital download didn’t come with those particular bells and whistles. Unfortunately, in his case, the CD was a pretty necessary thing, because trying to decipher all the pronunciation code was even more confusing than trying to figure out the words themselves.
Not that he was going to tell Libby that.
But then Dean insisted he pledge Alpha Pi Alpha with him and his mid-term progress report went out and he had to have “the phone call” with his parents and his coach threatened him with losing ice time if his grades didn’t come up—and he lost track of a week before he knew it. He’d told Dean about Libby, of course. He told Dean everything.
“The hot redhead in the library? You mean Olivia Stowe?” And of course Dean knew her. As big as the place was, it seemed like he knew everybody. “She was voted ‘the girl you’re most likely to jack-off to’ at Alpha Pi Alpha! There’s no way, freshman. She dated some senior guy for a while last year and then he graduated. She hasn’t dated anyone since.”
“We’ll see about that.” Henry shrugged, flipping through his history text, as if he were actually reading.
Dean snorted. “Is that a challenge, dude?”
“Maybe.” Henry grinned.
He’d never expected Dean to take him up on it. Or to win.
So when Dean invited him to the football game—wanted him to meet his date, maybe keep her company on the sidelines—Henry didn’t think twice.
He walked into his dorm room in a pretty good mood on his way back from hockey practice, tired, but in a good way—at least he got to skate at practice—freshly showered, his face still red from the October wind and the long walk across campus, ready to meet Dean’s girl and head off to the game. He had to admit, he idolized Dean. But who didn’t? And being his roommate gave him all sorts of advantages he didn’t even know existed.
Now if he could just tell the dragon-lady to pass me in English, Henry lamented, opening his dorm room door, whistling some tune he’d heard piped into the locker room overhead just half an hour before, and finding Dean sitting on his bed with a girl in his lap.
This wasn’t an unusual sight. He’d seen Dean with a lot of girls over the past five weeks, had even had to go next door to sleep in Bel’s room one Saturday night because the black sock was tied around the door handle. It wasn’t seeing him with a girl on his bed that was the problem.
The problem was—the girl was Libby. There was no mistaking her long red hair, that peaches and cream skin, the delicate, long-fingered hand that was playfully slapping Dean’s roving hands away. Dean was with Libby.
Henry stood in the doorway, frozen, staring at the two of them with an expression he was sure gave his feelings away. He was too surprised not to reveal himself. He felt as if the entire foundation of the world he walked around on had just crumbled away in an instant and he was falling toward the fiery hell of its center.
“Dude!” Dean turned his head toward Henry, smiling, not getting up, not pushing Libby off. In fact, he pulled her in closer with one arm, wedging her more firmly in his lap, and she was struggling at his fierce attention. “Libs, you know Henry.”
“Hi, Henry.” That was all she said, but he thought he saw a moment of surprise cross her features.
“Hi.” He managed that much.
Dean frowned. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”
Was he really so obtuse? Or was he just playing head games?
Henry shut the door and tried not to stumble as he made his way over to his bed. He wanted to crawl under it. Or at the very least, throw himself down on it. Maybe punch the pillow. Or the wall. Until his hands bled. That would be good. Instead, he just sat facing the two of them, wondering just how much worse his life could really get.
“Yeah, well, coach gave me some bad news.” Henry tried not to look at Libby’s face. Anywhere but there. He didn’t want to see whatever feeling was in her eyes—especially if there was no emotion there at all. “He’s not playing me until my grades come up.”
“Fucker.” Dean rolled his eyes. Libby had managed to slide off his lap, but Dean still had his arm around her. Henry tried to ignore his friend’s hand, the one that wasn’t wrapped around Libby’s hip. That one was resting on her jean-clad thigh, massaging gently. That’s the hand he wanted to tear off. “Want me to have my dad call him?”
